What if the Dog Never Barked?

November 7, 2014

David Jeremiah posed an interesting question today on his radio program. He told of an old tradition to the effect that as Joseph was being taken as slave to Egypt, he found and opportunity to escape, but as he tried to slip out of the camp, a dog barked, awakening the guard who recaptured him. Edward Everett Hale, who wrote "A Man Without a Country," asked the question, "What if the dog hadn't barked?" In his short, imaginative story, the dog didn't bark, the guard slept on, Joseph did escape, and made his way back to his father. The seven plentiful years came, followed by seven years of famine, but there was no Joseph in Egypt to save his people. Starvation wiped out his family...and the lineage of our Savior.

At the end of the actual Biblical story, Joseph tells his brothers, "You meant this for evil, but God meant it for good," but it took thirty years for that good to surface. In the meantime, Joseph endured nearly fifteen years' imprisonment, and for thirty years his father grieved daily the son he believed dead.

Sometimes it takes a long time to be able to see the good that God plans to bring out of the negative experiences and tragedies that so often dog our steps. In the meantime, evil remains evil; it isn't somehow magically transformed into something other than what it is. It is destructive and hurtful. As in Joseph's story, it divides families, destroys trust, unjustly imprisons people both literally and figuratively. No amount of whitewashing or explaining can make evil good. Our problem is that like Joseph, we spend a great deal of time in the  "in between," suffering through the evil, unable to see beyond that which tears at our hearts. We wish the dog to stay silent so we can escape that which we wish to avoid. We seldom consider what might be lost were we to get our wish, because we have no way of knowing that a famine is on its way. But all the time we weep over our misfortune and loss, God is looking down the road with purposes that will take that evil and force it into a pattern of his own making.

St. Paul enjoined us to give thanks for all things. I haven't gotten there yet. I am learning to give thanks IN all circumstances, but I don't know how to be thankful for the evil and misfortune that is so destructive in people's lives. I'm not sure what to do about those words of St. Paul, but it helps to know that our misfortunes aren't mere happenstance, capricious and meaningless, but must ultimately bow before the plan of our loving heavenly Father.

Costly Blessings

November 6, 2014

It's been a strange day, beginning at 5:45 am with the dog pawing at my side of the bed to go outside. When Linda is alone, Emma waits until at least 7 am before beginning her begging routine, but never fails to hop, whimper, and paw at my side of the bed when I am home. It isn't fair, but no one ever said life would be. Emma had just come back in when I got the text from Nate asking if I could ride into school with him and the girls. It's a long story, but one of their vehicles was at the school and needed to come home. Deb was sick, so she wasn't going to be able to bring it back.

An hour later, That job being done, I picked up the oil filter for the old tractor, hauled away the scrap steel in Bob's garage, and was about to head to Buffalo for the swim meet sectionals when we got word that they were canceled due to the hostage standoff downtown. Sadly, that situation ended with a suicide, returning the streets to normal, but the meet was still off. So I had time to plant the horseradish I dug up at my brother's yesterday, deliver the scrap to the recycler, mount the plow on the tractor, change its oil and get the chains ready for winter, before spending the evening with Nathan and Mattie, who are staying the night.

It was a pretty productive day, made more so by a deadly tragedy in Buffalo. It is an odd feeling to know that my blessing came at the price of a man's life. Why then doesn't it strike me as equally odd that the blessings of salvation come to us at the cost of a man's life? Have I become so familiar with the Gospel story that I take for granted its cold, hard cost? I live because Another died. And not just anyone; this was God's own Son. The fact that millennia separate that death from my life should be irrelevant. Christ died; I live. Today I am gaining new insight into my faith. I'm still processing it, trying to figure out how to be thankful for blessings that come at another's expense. I am grateful, but tonight it is a humble and pensive gratitude.

Malcolm's Gift

November 5, 2014

We've just survived midterm elections where a peculiar segment of our population rabidly seeks to be known by the rest of us. They take out advertisements in all the media for the express purpose of getting recognized. Those whose names and faces we already know spend all kinds of money to be recognized for what they consider to be the right reasons, while their opponents try to make sure they are recognized for the wrong reasons. And then there are those who have accomplished greater things than any of these politicians, but don't get the recognition they deserve.

Malcolm is one of the latter. Malcolm was one of Matt's college roommates, doing his undergrad work in ministerial studies at Roberts Wesleyan College in the mid-90's. Don't let the words "ministerial studies" deceive you into thinking all was rather dull and boring with Malcolm. He was, and is, anything but. I could relate many a story, but most of them are his to tell, not mine. OK, I'll tell just one. Malcolm needed to do an internship for his course of studies, and asked if I would be willing to give him the opportunity. I figured, "What is there to not like about this? He works for free; we just provide room and board." At the time of this particular incident, he was staying at a friend's house; Eric by name. Malcolm was a city boy, born and bred on the streets of Miami. Eric is country through and through. Farmer. NRA. You get the idea. Well, it seems as if Malcolm was more fond of the night life than Eric, who got a bit tired of his tenant's penchant for coming home in the wee hours of the morning. One particular night, he had had enough. Remember I just said Eric is NRA? It was way past midnight on this particular occasion when Malcolm came tip-toeing up the stairs. He hadn't made the second step when he heard "click," "Who's there?" from the Eric's bedroom at the top of the stairs. There's no mistaking the sound of a .357 being cocked. A weak, "It's me, Malcolm," was all he managed to squeak out.

Malcolm kept farmer hours from that day on.

All of which is completely irrelevant to my purposes tonight. One of the tasks I gave Malcolm was to preach once a month for me. I was surprised to learn that many students rarely if ever got the chance to preach in their internships. Apparently most preachers are pretty reluctant to give up their pulpits. Some are actually intimidated by these young students. I figured that the only way for him to learn to preach was to do it, so he did. And in the process, we received an unexpected benefit that is bearing fruit to this very day.

There actually are pastors out there who are super organized, managerial types who have their entire year's worth of sermons planned out in detail by the end of the previous December. These are the ones who in addition to their pastoral duties, found Bible Schools, produce radio programs, and become sought after conference speakers. I am not one of them. It was all I could do to plan a year's worth of sermon topics. Most of the time, I struggled to think ahead one month at a time. Churches that average between 100 and 175 are too large for one pastor to handle, but usually too small to afford additional staff, so their solo pastors are running ragged just trying to keep up with the basics. Long-range planning? It just doesn't happen.

By preaching for me, Malcolm gave me the necessary time once each month to dream and plan on a larger canvas than would have been otherwise possible. He stayed with us past the six months for which we originally contracted, and in doing so, paved the way for my vision of reaching the heart of the county with the heart of Christ. He moved on before this vision began to be translated into concrete, wood, and drywall, but had he not given me that monthly breathing room, Park church would still be a little country meetinghouse on the corner of Lester Street and East Avenue.

We are not large by most standards, but we are reaching people and impacting our community today in ways that would have been impossible without Malcolm's ministry to us. He is pastoring in California, but his ministry and influence is bi-coastal to this day. So, Malcolm--Thank you! From me, from Park church, from our new pastor Joe, and from the community of Sinclairville, NY; thank you!

Smoking Leaves

Yesterday I didn't have intenet access, so here is yesterday's posting:

November 4, 2014

I hadn't inhaled that aroma since I was a kid, but it was unmistakeable. Once you've smelled it, you can't forget it. My kids and grandkids may never have the privilege of smelling it, but I was born at just the right time, and remember vividly those fall days when my grandfather would rake the leaves to the curb and set them afire. Everyone did it back then. You could walk entire suburban streets, and as far as you could see, the curbs were smoldering, giving off their sweet smells. Nobody gave any thought to pollution; after all, my grandfather's generation lived through the heady years of burgeoning factories with their smokestacks spewing with impunity heaven knows what into the air.

Today, the EPA and even local municipalities have banned outdoor fires of all sorts. No one burns their trash anymore, and in many places, campfires are taboo. The fragrant aroma of burning leaves is mostly a memory except on those rare occasions when someone out in the countryside either hasn't heard or defiantly ignores the regulations. I was riding my sidehack the other day when I caught the faint scent of burning leaves that made me smile as it took me back fifty years in time. I've been told that our sense of smell has a greater capacity to trigger memories and emotions than any other of the five senses. I believe it. All I have to do is drive route 60 on a summer evening. When I pass Spartan Tool, I can usually smell the odor of the natural gas escaping from the wellheads in the swamp to the west. Immediately, I am transported over forty years back to when Linda and I were first married and living in the oil country of Allegany county.

Childhood and young adult memories are for many people, filled with terror, pain, and guilt. I am among the few who seemingly have been spared, and am grateful for this olfactory gift. My hearing may not be up to snuff, but there's nothing wrong with my nose; so these occasional whiffs open doors (one of them is Red) that take me back to pleasant places and remind me to give thanks for the life I have been given.

Little Giants

November 3, 2014

The words have been recited in the homes of the faithful for nearly 4,000 years; "Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God, the LORD is one. Love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength. These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads.
Write them on the door frames of your houses and on your gates." (From Deuteronomy 6).

Yesterday, Park church received a glimpse into how this works. It was an emotional day, with our kids, the Katilus family, moving to Texas to begin a new life there. Tears flowed freely even as we worked hard to help them pack for the long road ahead of them. But before that all transpired, God gave us a glimpse into his design for the preservation and flourishing of our faith. It happened at the end of the early worship service.

Pastor Joe had finished preaching; people had come forward to receive Holy Communion when he invited those who wanted prayer to join him at the front of the church. He looked at me and said, "Pastor Jim, will you come and pray with me?" I stepped out of my seat and stood by his side waiting. There was a rustling in the front seats to our left, and we watched as Ian and Nathan, age 10 and 7, brought their friend Cameron age 5, to the front of the church. I bent down to hear Nathan ask me to pray for his friend who was moving away. You know, it's awfully hard to pray when you can barely speak for the tears. I thanked God for Nathan and Ian, who love Jesus and Cameron enough to ask for prayers for him; then I blessed Cameron. My prayer was and is that all three of them will grow in the knowledge and grace of Christ to become young men of integrity, courage, faith, and love. It was one of the most moving experiences I've ever had, and is testimony to the power of that ancient blessing. When parents faithfully train their children by word and example, it really does take root.

The music yesterday was inspired, and Joe preached well. But I suspect the most memorable sermon was delivered through these three boys who have been taught well at home, and who loved each other enough to step out in front of the entire congregation to be blessed in prayer.

Saying Goodbye

November 2, 2014

Habakkuk the prophet was perplexed. He knew his people needed chastening for their unfaithfulness to the Lord, but when it came at the hands of the ruthless Assyrians, it seemed to him a miscarriage of justice. "These people who kill and rape and steal are worse than we ever were; how is there any justice in this?" he wailed. But instead of turning his back on God, he said, "I'll sit and wait to see what the LORD has to say to me."

I don't know how long he waited for an answer, but when it came, it probably wasn't what he expected. At first glance, it doesn't seem like much of an answer at all. "The just shall live by faith" was what God told him. Huh? What kind of answer is that? Well, in this world, it is about the only answer we often get: Just keep trusting God." Sometimes there is no other choice except despair. It's either hang on or give up. God doesn't let us in on all his secrets. I don't believe it's because he delights in watching us weep at gravesides or writhe with the pain of cancer, but there are often paths along which he leads us that we would avoid like the plague if we knew ahead of time where they were leading.

I've stood with parents by the grave of their child, wondering if I can find any words that can give some measure of comfort, knowing full well their grief will not go away. And yet, these very same parents when asked if they would rather not have been given that child, invariably say that the privilege of raising their child was worth carrying within them a broken heart. Love is worth the pain.

And yet, it hurts, and often makes no sense. The prophet Jeremiah even accused God of deceiving him. It hardly seems wise to challenge God, but when you are hurting badly enough, desperation often kicks in. "You deceived me, LORD, and I was deceived; you overpowered me and prevailed. I am ridiculed all day long; everyone mocks me" (Jeremiah 20:7). That's a pretty ballsy thing to say to God, but Jeremiah had had enough. As Ricky Ricardo used to say to Lucy, "You got some 'splainin' to do!" Still, God holds his peace, while we struggle to find ours.

Remember Habakkuk? When all was said and done, God's word proved to be enough. At the very end of his short prophecy, he concludes, "Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior. The Sovereign LORD is my strength."

I think the emphasis in Habakkuk's final statement is on the word "will." I WILL rejoice..." I think he flings that word "will" down like a gauntlet, gritting his teeth as he by sheer force of willpower makes his choice. We always have a choice. When the storm hits we can either praise or protest. Neither one will change the storm, but our choice will change us. This evening the Bailey clan tearfully said farewell to part of our family. The Katilus family is on their way to new jobs and a new life in Texas. They have blessed us as we watched them grow in faith and love for Jesus, as we worshipped with them, and shared birthdays, vacations, and Christmases together. The tears are plentiful, the ache in our hearts is deep and raw. I can't pretend to understand, and in my prayers I am Ricky Ricardo, but God isn't 'splainin.' Yet I will praise him and thank him for the years we had together and the love that fills our hearts with pain, knowing that God has purposes he doesn't always choose to reveal until that day when all his children are reunited and the circle is once more unbroken.

For All the Saints

November 1, 2014

Well, we got the snow the weatherman had promised. Not much; just a dusting that didn't really stick, a calling card from Old Man Winter reminding us that he is on his way. Snow means Linda is ready for Christmas carols and decorations, less than a day out of Halloween, which is the real reason for writing today. It would be funny if it weren't so sad how our culture has embraced the macabre. Kids and even grownups go around all decked out in ghoulish costumes; time gets set aside in school for Halloween parties, but we can't observe Christmas without violating the "separation of church and state." It goes unnoticed that Halloween is actually a religious holy day for Druids and others who honor the darkness. I'm not complaining; I enjoy the little kids who come around Trick or Treating. We used to get upwards of 200 marching up our sidewalk when we lived on  Cassadaga's main street. Now it's just the grandchildren and a few close friends from church. We had hot cider, cookies and snacks for everyone. Last night, Linda even baked a pumpkin pie which was served with real whipped cream! The kids ran around like banshees while we talked and laughed.

What gets overlooked in all this is today; All Saint's Day, where Christians honor those who have died in the past year, and even years before. It is a time of remembrance and gratitude for the example of faith that has been handed down through the generations. Instead of a celebration of death, ours is a celebration of Life. So today, I am thankful for the Apostles who wrote the New Testament, handing on to us the stories that enable us to trust in Christ, and the guidelines we still follow as we try to faithfully live out the Gospel. I am grateful for the Church Fathers whom most Christians have never even heard of, men like Ignatius, Athanasius, Clement, Eusebius, and Augustine.

I am thankful for the monastics and mystics like Bernard, Julius, Theresa, St. John of the Cross, St. Francis, who called the Church back to her roots. I am grateful for the Reformers like Luther, Calvin, Knox, and Hus, who stood firm for the purity of the faith in the face of fierce opposition from the institutional church. I am thankful for those who labored to make sure we could read the Bible in our own language, men like Wycliffe, Latimer, Ridley, Tyndale, Coverdale, and Lancelot Andrewes. I am thankful for John Bunyan, who gave us Pilgrim's Progress, for John Newton who gave us "Amazing Grace," for Whitefield and Wesley, Asbury and Coke, the early giants of our Methodist tradition, and for Susannah Wesley who gave birth and nurture to John and Charles. I am grateful for William Carey, who in the 18th century awakened the Christian world to international missions.

I am thankful for the people in my own life who brought me to faith and nurtured me as a young Christian; for my parents who insisted we attend church, Sunday School, and youth group. For the leaders at the old Westside Baptist Church who taught and lived out genuine Christian faith, people like Ozzie Palmer, Chuck Bassett, Helen Beach, Dorothy Silver, Pastor Ellis, and countless others. I am grateful for Fred Thomas and Sterling Huston who led Youth for Christ when I was a teenager.

I am thankful for my wife who has been the finest example of Christian patience and faithfulness I could ever imagine (after all, she puts up with me), for Bishop Yeakel whose attentiveness to a young seminarian brought me into my present denomination, for all the District Superintendents who resisted all temptation to wring my neck because reports were late (a special thanks for Bob Pascoe, whose ministry to me kept me going when I was at a point where I didn't think I could do the work of a pastor anymore), and to so many colleagues who have challenged me, supported me, and walked together through this often crazy business of pastoral ministry.

The list could go on and on. Heaven is populated with men and women who have labored anonymously and faithfully, each contributing his or her part in the long line of saints whose witness has kept the flame burning brightly. May we who have received their gift, often at great cost and sacrifice, treasure it, handle it carefully, proclaim it boldly, so future generations will rise up and call us blessed.